


Pale Fever

by pauraque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: pornish_pixies, Consent Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-28
Updated: 2004-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:12:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's after the moon that Peter wants him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pale Fever

**Author's Note:**

> For the Fantasy Fest at Pornish Pixies, using Sistrurus' prompt: "Peter Pettigrew/Remus Lupin- Pettigrew tops and actually penetrates Lupin. Pettigrew should not appear somewhat impotent, submissive, etc. Bestiality and/or non-con encouraged."
> 
> Thanks to Sistrurus for a great request, to Chresimos for the concept and encouragement, to Caesia for the beta, and to Keladry for letting me write smut on her couch.

The faint clang of the primary-school bell drifts up from the village as they come down the stone steps to the grounds, through the river of laughing second-years returning flush-cheeked from Care of Magical Creatures. The cold wind cuts into Peter's face as he trails after Sirius and James— watching his feet so he doesn't slip on the fallen leaves.

Remus coughs again behind him, rough and deep in his throat. Peter glances back, and their eyes meet sidelong— the wolf still lingers in Remus's gaunt cheeks, pale fever in his eyes. A spurt of instinctual rat-fear clenches Peter's toes, makes his heart race ahead.

James stretches his back, takes a deep breath of the wind (Peter sees Prongs restlessly pawing the earth, head held high). 'Fancy a fly?' he says, gazing out towards the Quidditch pitch. 'Think the Slytherins've got practice down there.' He starts strolling off down the hill, arms swinging, step light.

'Yeah,' Sirius says, his lips curling into a smile. 'Coming, Moony?'

Remus's pale, hollow eyes flit towards Peter for half a second— Peter imagines he's looking for permission, and has to bite his lip to keep from smiling. Remus rubs his shoulder and mutters something about the library, mostly lost in the wind.

'Sure,' says Sirius. 'See you later, then.' He throws Remus a loose wave and then breaks into a loping run, brushing past James down the hill. James shouts and gives chase; they dart and weave the way they did last night in the forest clearing, moonlight off their fur and _strong_ (Peter watching by the side of a stump, tiny and forgotten). Sirius barks a laugh over his shoulder, shaggy black hair whipped by the wind.

'So,' Remus says. Peter turns, and Remus is looking at him with his fringe falling in strings over his eyes. 'Later, I guess.' He stands with his weight all on one foot, as though his book bag is too heavy for him.

Thoughts of what he could say to that tumble all in broken pieces (later _yes_ later we'll be, you'll be—) and Peter just breathes the chill air in and out for a minute, holding Remus's feral forlorn gaze.

'Yeah,' he finally says, 'later.'

Remus looks away first. He wets his lips, his eyes slip away to the side and he turns, slouches off toward the courtyard cut-across to the library. He puts his head down to watch his feet, and Peter looks at the pale bumps of vertebrae at the back of his neck until he disappears around the corner.

*

The barely waning moon lies couched in blue clouds out the window. Peter sits in its light, his head resting on his knees, fingers listlessly turning the pages of the magazine lying open on his bedspread.

The door clicks open, and Remus slips around it. His tired eyes glint faintly as he glances at Peter, and Peter's toes clench, his heart does that jump again— wolf.

Remus skirts around the light where it's spilt on the floor, skulking around the far side of the room. He lets his bag drop heavily onto his bed, and his knees seem to buckle as he sits down, as though he couldn't possibly have stood up any longer. His eyes close for a moment; he breathes out.

He takes off his shoes and socks, and Peter is still holding a magazine page half-turned in his fingertips, but he's watching. Remus's feet are long and skinny like the rest of him, his ankles swollen and bruised. He pulls his right foot up to rest on his knee and rubs the arch, flexing his bone-delicate toes.

Remus's eyes look bruised too in this light, redbrown smudged hollows beneath. 'James and Sirius been up?' he says.

'Yeah. Came and got the map.'

'Ah,' Remus says. (It drives Peter mad that he says that, _ah_ , as though he's so much more grown-up than the rest of them.) 'Well, can't imagine they'll be back soon.'

'No...' Peter says. And then, after a pause: 'C'mere a minute.'

Remus tenses. He puts both feet on the floor, and his palms down on his mattress on either side. Peter can see how very narrow Remus's shoulders are, squeezed together like that. For a moment, Peter isn't sure if Remus is going to obey him, and his mouth gets dry thinking about telling him again.

But Remus pushes himself up, and pads across to Peter's bed. He hesitates slightly— the moon still shines across the blankets— and then slides onto the mattress.

Peter stretches to put his magazine down on the nightstand, and then scoots over close to Remus. Puts his hand on his shoulder. So skinny, hard tendons pulled tight. They're looking at each other, and Remus's eyes look glazed, this close, constantly making tiny shifts. Peter can't imagine what's behind them.

He slides his palm over the back of Remus's neck, clammy and white— the bumps of his spine.

'Do we always have to,' Remus starts to say, and then closes his mouth firmly. Do we always have to do this now, Peter thinks he was going to say. But it's after the moon that Peter wants him. Not when he's strong, when it takes Prongs and Padfoot both to hold him back. _Now_ , when he's sick, when he's weak and exhausted.

Peter nuzzles against Remus's shoulder, slides his hand down the desperate thinness of his ribcage. He shivers, and Remus does too, but differently.

'Peter,' Remus says. 'Peter, I—I'm not—' Peter presses forward, nudges Remus in the chest. And Remus lies back awkwardly, his mouth set in an odd line.

That look excites Peter, and so does the particular creak of his bed under their weight, the strangely bright cast of the moonlight on Remus's skin as Peter undresses him. How skinny his arm is when it's stretched up over his head as Peter pulls off his shirt. Remus doesn't help very much, and that excites Peter too, lets him imagine he hasn't the strength to do anything but lie like a doll in Peter's arms.

There are two long red scratches that start at the tender hollow between Remus's hip and his belly, and keep going as Peter pulls down Remus's trousers, down over his thigh. Just barely knitted up, red-raw. Peter touches them, feels Remus's legs tighten as he cringes. The wounds are hot like sunburn under his fingertips— Peter wonders if they'll scar.

Gets Remus's trousers all the way down, and off. Long, fine-boned legs, tendons stretched and joints protruding. Like Moony, but turned-around, parodied. Peter runs his finger up the sole of Remus's foot, and breathes a giggle at the way he jerks. Remus watches what he's doing, and his mouth is open slightly, shallow breaths.

Peter takes his trousers off now, and can't help touching himself. Remus is half propped up on his elbow, weight all awkwardly shifted. His eyes go from Peter's hand to his face, and he bites his lip just a bit. Remus's dick is half-hard, flushed and leaning off to the side as though about to faint. Remus is big, and Peter hates that. Peter strokes himself, the tails of his shirt hanging down on either side. Peter won't take his shirt off, never that— makes him think of them laughing at him, his belly, his hairless chest. Not that, now. He gives his cock a harder squeeze, and frowns.

'Get it,' he says abruptly. Remus startles, eyes wide in a fleeting look of surprise— hurt? Then rolls over and reaches for the drawer, and in a moment Remus's skinny fingers are spreading coolslick over his cock. He's crouched down on knees and elbows, yellowed eyes looking up through his fringe of stringy hair.

Peter takes Remus's hand and guides it over his dick, making him squeeze harder. When he lets Remus's hand go, the thin skin is white in the shape of Peter's fingers.

'Lie down,' Peter breathes.

Remus hesitates. 'Which way?' he says, his voice a thin rasp.

'On your back,' Peter says, and pushes at Remus's shoulder— then, on impulse, pushes him all the way down, puts his leg over him and pins him down with his weight. The bones of Remus's hips dig into his thighs— his skin feels damp and too hot to be natural, like he's running a fever. Peter's hands are too small to get around Remus's swollen wrists, but he can push them down hard against the mattress, making Remus's fingers curl into claws.

Peter backs off him, lets him bring his knees up— grabs the pillow to put under Remus's arse, tilting up his hips— And Peter shoves into him, all at one go; Remus lets out a raw cry, unguarded, undignified, and Peter wants to make him do that again, push things out of him, make him lose control. He's _tight_ like a fist, like there's barely room, and it makes Peter feel big.

Peter leans forward as he starts to thrust into him, Remus's legs pressing down hard over his, and braces himself with hands on the mattress, on Remus's shoulders. This angle, this light, he can see it now— fresh bruising a crescent of black and yellow all under Remus's chest. He's always bruised there, where Moony ripped his body apart, and Peter touches, rubs his palms over— Remus whimpers breathlessly.

He's got his rhythm now, and he's sweating through his shirt; it's sticking to his back, wet under his arms. The smell of Remus's sweat, of earth and grass, of _blood_. And a smell, a feel, that's cold like mint leaves, like bleak moonlight. Lingering as it does after the transformation, driving Peter mad with envy and lust. Peter's blankets are all rumpled and bunching up beneath them, getting in the way.

Remus pulls his legs back further, clutching the blanket with one hand and Peter's shirtsleeve in the other. Head back, eyes closed in pain, white palemoon throat bared with the light spilling over it, the curve of his chin's underside, the way his Adam's apple moves as he breathlessly swallows, gulps the air. Peter can't help himself, he reaches over and takes Remus's throat in his hand, closes his palm over it, and Remus's hands fly to Peter's, but Peter doesn't squeeze— he doesn't, but he _could_ , he could hold this ragdoll wolf and screw him hard and clutch his throat like Padfoot shaking the life out of a rabbit in his jaws.

Peter comes before he's ready, the double-cry, first of surprise and then of anguishpleasure— Oh— _oh!_ — as his hips jerk forward so he's right up against Remus's arse, spilling into him. He presses into Remus long and hard until the last shudders are wrung out, that wordless endless satisfaction of just _holding it there_ , where it should be. Remus's arse tightens and releases as he breathes.

It takes a minute for Peter to realise he's still got Remus by the throat. He releases him slowly, fingers peeling off with a faint stick of sweat. Remus's hand goes protectively to his collarbone; his breathing is rapid and shallow, and his pale eyes are wide.

Peter finally pulls out of him with a grunt and rolls off to the side, breathless. Remus hasn't come, still half-hard and flushed, eyebrows knit. Looking up at the ceiling. Peter looks at his profile, his funny nose, outlined with the window's bluegrey glow. Watches him breathe, his shadowed ribs expand and contract, his skin like pale dry paper between them.

'Go on, then,' Peter mumbles.

Remus glances back at him for half an instant with hollow-haunted eyes, and then shifts onto his side, facing away. Peter's heaving breath catches, and he lays his hand on Remus's hip. Remus's shoulderblades are sharp, the valley between tender. Peter puts his mouth there, and breathes, and it smells of stale sweat— a spot Remus has a hard time reaching in the shower, Peter thinks.

Remus's hip moves under his hand, and Peter shifts up to watch. Remus masturbates, pale-knuckled thin fist milking over himself, his stretched-tendon legs brought up protectively. Peter looks at his roughened red knees, and damp dark hair down his calves. Remus gets himself off quietly, his climax little more than a choked gasp, his come spurting only a few inches onto the mattress.

They lie there for a minute, and then Remus slips out from under Peter's hand, out of the moonlight and back to his own bed on the dark side of the room. He curls up and pulls the covers almost all the way over his head, just a bit of his stringy hair sticking out. Sometimes, Remus has a shower afterwards. Maybe he's too tired tonight. Peter smiles at that.

Peter gets his wand and cleans up his bed, himself. Doesn't do the best job he can, though, and when he settles into bed, it still smells faintly of fever and cold mint. The moon is half-covered by clouds, now.

Peter is dozing off when James and Sirius's sardonic murmurs drift up through the corridor, muffled through the wall. They come in with the smell of torches and outdoors, breathless looming shadows against the dim walls.

James's voice: 'Anyone awake?'

Neither Peter nor Remus answers. James and Sirius continue whispering, sniggering about whatever mischief they've made.

And what if they'd come in half an hour before? What if they'd caught him, seen him screwing Remus— They'd laugh and point at him, his fat pale thighs, at the faces he makes. And Remus would hear them laughing, and he'd realise how ridiculous it is— he'd realise that he's _Moony_ , and Peter's nothing more than a mouthful of fur and tiny bones.

The dark shapes move across the room, and whisper about what they're going to do the next full moon, and the one after that, and the one after that.


End file.
